A TRIP TO
THE BARBER SHOP
I am not a
vain hair person: I never comb my hair –
I just wear it. I like long hair, but
my wife doesn’t, so I go the barbershop when she starts to remind me, again and
again that I am overdue for a haircut.
I went in
this morning. We have a small barbershop
with three chairs. There are three
women barbers. Each woman has pictures of her family on the counter in front of the mirror. There is a coat rack
inside the front door, a poster on the wall with pictures of men with
different hair styles, some plants in the front window and a radio playing soft
music.
Each time I
go in for a haircut I can’t help but remember the barber shop of my childhood
in a small Delta town in Mississippi.
Back then a barbershop was a man’s world. No woman would have ever gone into the
barbershop even with her children. It
was a place where old men hung out and smoked and talked of farming, women,
weather and politics
I remember
deer heads on the wall and mounted fish, calendars with pictures of tractors
and scantily clad women. The atmosphere
was heavy with smoke from cigarettes and cigars. One old barber constantly had a cigarette
hanging from the side of his mouth and the other chewed tobacco, so there were
two spittoons – one near the barber and one near the door. More than once I smelled whiskey on the
breath of one of the barbers.
The walls in
the barbershop were yellowed plaster -probably from the constant smoke, and there
were no mirrors. The counter with the clippers, scissors and straight razor was
also full of mysterious, colorful hair products like Lucky Tiger, Jeri’s, Clubman,
Brylcreem, Vitalis and others. The floor
was always covered with hair from previous cuts
I was raised
by my grandmother, but when she would send me to get a haircut I entered the
world of men. I always got a friendly ribbing
when I was young, but it was an inclusion, an acceptance that I would someday
become one of them.
There is no
gender identity today, and some would say that is a good thing; but back then,
in the forties and fifties, manhood was an exclusive club. When you made the cut, you knew who you were
and you were comfortable with your distinct gender roll.
the Ol'Buzzard
